Tears
by Akuma no Tsubasa
Summary: Four related short stories exploring the evolution of the relationship between Rygdea and Cid over the course of the game. No pairings. Spoilers. Rated high for alcohol use, swearing, and what Rygdea did to Cid at the end of the game. No happy ending.
1. Tear of Frustration

Hello, all!

Okay, I know that I really need to finish AYCK. It is, in fact, my New Year's resolution for the year 2011-which as we all know virtually guarantees it won't happen. . However, this thing bit me too hard to not write it out. This is the first in a series of four short fics named after some of the upgrade components in FFXIII. I wanted to work on my short-story skills, since I'm really more of an epic person and short stories are good for honing all kinds of things in one's writing. Plus, do characters come much hotter than Cid Raines and Rygdea? ;) Nothing beyond friendship here (unfortunately), but if you want to read this as Rygdea just in denial, feel free.

And since I'm working on particular skills, here, PLEASE leave feedback so I can improve!

-Akuma

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><p><strong>Tear of Frustration<strong>

Rygdea scowled at the door as it closed behind Raines's white-cloaked back. When he was sure it had shut completely, he turned and kicked a nearby console hard enough to dent it and ignored the angry burning in the corners of his eyes. The other Cavalry members kept their heads down and their gazes averted. They knew the drill. More and more often these days, talks with Cid ended this way, and Rygdea was getting frustrated and taking it out on the nearest inanimate object.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anything else he could do. Cid was his friend, but the man seemed to be holding him at arms length. Rygdea knew something was bothering him, but he wouldn't say **what**. How was he supposed to help fix it—whatever 'it' was—if that obstinate, prideful, independent tight-ass wouldn't tell him? Hell, he couldn't even make Raines admit there **was** a problem.

Was it strange or just ironic the way things changed? Not so very long ago, he'd been looking to probably retire from the military, disgusted with the state of Cocoon, and angry at the indiscriminate Purges. It had seemed like the society he had sworn to protect was destroying itself in its terror of all things Pulsian. Back then, Cid had been the one who reached out to him, drawing him into a secret revolution of sorts. It had seemed so obvious that they needed to buck Fal'cie control if they were ever to take control of their own fates as human beings.

That idealistic vigor had fanned the crushed embers of his fighting spirit into flames, like when he'd been young—not that he was **old**, mind, even if his joints did creak occasionally, and he'd swear that was just due to too many combat drops screwing with his knees. Raines had given him a cause to live for, and the friendship that arose between them afterward over mugs of beer and plans for rebellions had been as much a comfort to Cid as to him.

Now, it was all backward, only Cid wouldn't **allow** him to try to breathe life back into him. There was something dull in the backs of his eyes, like the edge of a neglected sword, or of fine crystal thinly coated with dust. Rygdea could see that Cid's faith in their ultimate ability to overcome had wavered, and it was incredibly frustrating to him that he couldn't put his finger on where or when it occurred, because at least that would be a clue.

All that seemed to be left of the old Cid Raines was that desire to **fight**, but without the belief in the cause, it seemed more the wild thrashing of a lamb caught in the wolf's jaws than of a revolutionary bucking the system. Rygdea tried to banish the thought from memory as soon as it occurred, but all he could think of was the glassy-eyed stare of a prey-beast near the brink of death, trying at least to leave the predator a bruise by which to remember the meal.

Cid was a dangerous man, he reminded himself. You didn't get to be a general in the Guardian Corps at such a relatively young age otherwise. PSICOM, sure, but the GC was a place where high test scores alone wouldn't net you a command—you had to prove yourself. So he really shouldn't worry so much. Raines would surely be fine. The fact that he'd handed over all his command codes prior to leaving, and that he refused to say exactly where he was going—well, Rygdea shouldn't read too much into it. Probably just a precaution, and Eden's teeth, Cid had been jumping at shadows the past few weeks, so it would be entirely in keeping with his behavior of late.

Once he got back, though... Rygdea smacked a fist into his hand fiercely enough to make those near him jump. He grinned at their deer-in-the-headlights expressions and whistled a little tune as he left the bridge. He made a mental deal with Cid, that next time they saw each other, he **would** wring the whole story out of his sorry guts. Rygdea was a captain of the Guardian Corps, and he didn't take this kind of choco-shit from anyone, not even his best friend. He hadn't cried in ages, and Cid Raines wasn't going to make him start, not even if they were just tears of frustration.


	2. Tear of Woe

Part #2 in the series.

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><p><strong>Tear of Woe<strong>

In front of the other Cavalrymen, Rygdea was mostly his usual self. Maybe a bit angry, but that was to be expected with all that had happened.

Sitting alone in his quarters aboard _Lindblum_ though, he was different. At least, he **felt** different. Here he allowed himself to feel the pain of his friend's betrayal. Cid Raines still lived, but Rygdea couldn't convince his traitorous heart of that—he felt like his friend had **died**, not just abandoned their little revolution for an office with a window, and the title 'Primarch.'

It would have been one thing if it had been part of some ruse to get one of theirs into a position of such trust and power to try and influence the Sanctum from within. But no such plan had been made, and when Rygdea finally managed to contact Raines after he'd disappeared without word for fucking **days**, his once-friend had been cool, abrupt, and bordering on rudeness when he dismissed the idea as silly. He'd said he wouldn't report Rygdea's treasonous insinuations out of respect for their old friendship, but that those ties were now severed.

If he had expected Rygdea to just shrug and walk away after that, he definitely didn't know him that well after all. No, Raines's sudden, unforeseen betrayal hurt in a way that demanded retaliation. The pain twisted like a live thing in an unnameable dark place inside him that bayed for vengeance. For the good of the Cavalry, he put a pretty face on that slavering beast, said that Raines was a threat to them with his intimate knowledge of their operation.

But alone in his quarters, the monster darted through the flash and shadow of whiskey in a cut crystal tumbler, the mate of the one he had dashed against the wall half a bottle after that fateful call to Edenhall. He left its remains where they were—at least if he stepped on a piece and cut himself he'd have a reason to cry. It was just a hypothetical, though.

Even drunk, he was much too careful to ever step on any.

Raines had been his friend, and he was further a very talented fighter, so Rygdea knew the burden of silencing him would fall to him. No, call it what it now was—assassinating the Primarch. No one else said anything about it, but it was understood in the silences and the sidelong glances that followed any passing mention of their old leader. One part of him cried out at the unfairness of it all, groaning under the burden of the knowledge that he would have to kill the man who had been his best friend. But he was a soldier, and though that tiny part of his spirit cried out for reprieve and he mourned the loss of a great man, he'd get the job done. He might drink the _Lindblum_ dry, first, but he'd certainly get the job done.

He just wished he knew **why**. Cid—no, Raines, keep it impersonal, dumbass—had been troubled, before all this. The whiskey made him wonder if it was his fault, if there had been anything he could have done to avert this disaster. It made him think back to all the times he had wondered if Ci-**Raines's** eyes had seemed a little distant, a little dead. He'd thought it was just the ghosts anyone who was a soldier long enough got, but now he had to reconsider. And Goddess, he hated second guessing himself.

Damn the whiskey, anyway. Shit, he was going dry starting tomorrow. Crap'd only pickle his liver and make him act the fool in front of the boys, and damned if he didn't already feel like he'd been played for one. Damn Raines, too, while he was at it. And Fal'cie, l'cie, any thing 'cie.' And damn him for sitting here in the dark getting maudlin like some emo brat trying out for the soaps. Damned 'woe-is-me' choco-shit.

He knocked back the last of the whiskey and stumbled to bed, pretending the tears in his eyes were from the burn of the alcohol.


	3. Tear of Remorse

And Part #3...

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><p><strong>Tear of Remorse<strong>

No matter how fast he ran, he couldn't outrun the guilt. Truth be told, he didn't really want to. Cid had been his friend, and no matter that he'd gone and betrayed them, it hurt to have killed him.

He tried to tell himself that it was necessary, but just because a limb **had** to be amputated, didn't make the loss any less devastating. He tried to tell himself Cid had even asked for it, but that just made it worse. It had been like a scrap of his old friend sitting there, asking him to do what was right. And he'd sounded so hopeless. His eyes were glassy, his face either mask-like or resigned—a far cry from the passion in his speech just minutes previous.

Rygdea kept reliving the moment of the shot. He had grit his teeth and just **done** it, the butt of the rifle kicking and the report as deafening as any firearm going off in an enclosed space, even one as large as the Primarch's office. The sound of the brass hitting the fastidiously clean tile was unnaturally loud, though, and made him flinch slightly. It was strange to him that, though there had been a spray of blood and brains, the outward damage really wasn't that great. Cid's face had been peaceful, only a little blood at the temple, but most of the wound was concealed by his hair.

Thank Eden for sending enemies to mow down immediately afterward, because he was desperately in need of distraction. The mission to kill Cid was only a detour from the main goal—the destruction of Orphan, which their intelligence had recently discovered was the power source for all the Fal'cie in Cocoon. Only a handful of troops had gone with him to help and to witness. Detour or not, it seemed to Rygdea as though he'd accomplished all he could, reached the bitter pinnacle of his achievements in life. He was the assassin of a Primarch, and that had never happened before in all of Cocoon's history!

Besides, what good would freedom from the Fal'cie be without friends to share it with?

Cursing his newly developed bent for the melodramatic, Rygdea scrubbed his hands over his stubbled face. He was just tired. Exhausted, really, but what could he do? The time to end Fal'cie dominion over the people of Cocoon was **now**, and time waited for no one, certainly not lowly Cavalry captains. More than anything, he hated the feeling of being **forced** to walk this path—he got a paranoid feeling that made him understand Cid-of-old that much better. If all this had been set in motion by the Fal'cie, too... The thought made him sick.

Still, before they went to destroy Orphan and free the undoubtedly ungrateful people of Cocoon, there was one last duty remaining. Of all the topics that had come up for discussion, Cid and Rygdea had never discussed funerary preferences. It seemed like a glaring oversight, given that they were soldiers and revolutionaries, but there it was. So he had no idea what to do with the body of his friend—no use continuing to deny their friendship, when it felt like his heart had been torn out.

So Rygdea arranged to have Cid go out the way he himself would have wanted—in a blaze of glory, a conflagration that could be seen for miles and would leave behind only enough for people to say 'what the hell happened here?' He suspected Cid would have preferred something more stately—the man always **did** have a stick up his ass—but funerals were for the living anyway. The dead didn't need to grieve.

Still running, feet turned unerringly toward the lower levels and a hopefully final confrontation with Orphan, Rygdea fumbled for the detonator at his belt. No fanfare was needed, no fuss beyond checking that all his men were clear of the floor they'd rigged to blow, and the couple they were using as buffer zone between them and the blast. He pressed the button.

The roar was deafening, and even this distance away, he felt heat. After a few minutes, the overworked air filtration systems began to let a tinge of acrid smoke into the air, making a few of his men cough in their helmets—which was a pretty nasty experience in itself. Rygdea didn't have the protection of a helmet, but the smoke didn't really bother him. The only reaction to it was the tears stung from reddened eyes.


	4. Cie'th Tear

Short-fic #4. It's so hard keeping it short! Please leave feedback-I really need to improve my short story skills.

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><p><strong>Cie'th Tear<strong>

The world was different now, hard-edged and devoid of all comfort. Once, he had been a man, though the memory of that time was already fading. Now all that remained was the suffering. His mind circled endlessly around one Dream, one faded vision of crystal-clear Focus, already ashes before he came to Focus on it.

Even the company of others-like-him held no comfort—they were all empty of spark and vigor, empty souls and gaping mouths caught forever in wailing agony. If he could have, he would have wondered if they, too, were consumed by a Fal'cie's empty Dream, or if they were denied even a Focus to drive them. Only...wondering about the state of mind of others was not something he could do any more. All he could do was wail like the others-like-him from vocal cords turned to crystal, weeping crystalline tears from glassy eyes.

And kill. He could do that, he **would** do that, just as soon as something living crossed his path. The faded dreams of manhood hinted that it had been better then—everything had been better then, his body flesh, not stone, and confusing concepts like love and friendship and joy all his to partake. But it was all gone, with nothing he could do to **fix** it, and he was **made** of hatred for those who still had that. Envy and regret and anguish and heartbreak bound him together, but pure condensed hatred was his weapon, what kept him staggering around looking for something to kill in the hopes it would bring relief. If not, then maybe he could at least be Unmade, and have the peace of oblivion.

It was a thought he struggled to form, intellect and will sliding away from him like acrid smoke through his fingers.

Smoke...why did that seem so painfully familiar? He didn't know, and it didn't matter. It was surely just another thing lost to him, winding the hate a little more tightly, his sword rattling in his hand in response. The vibration sent spikes of pain through him, more added on top of that incurred just by moving, grinding bits of unyielding mineral together at every step. He saw some of the others-like-him shambling slowly around as though trying to avoid this one tiny pain. If he had been able to feel good enough about himself to put himself above these others, he might have felt contempt. They were all made of suffering and sorrow and hatred, so what was the point in squirming away from their very own being?

There was no escape. He was one of the damned and there could be no release from the hell of simply existing. His Fal'cie did not care enough even to be disgusted or disappointed in him. He was nothing, still animate, trying to negate everything else because he had nothing.

Only the Dream remained outside the hatred, all the more beautiful and pure because it was untainted. He Dreamed of black hair and pale flesh and eyes somewhere between brown and grey and _Save Cid_ whispered in his mind while his skin burned with a bright new brand. The Dream was a terrible tease, though, drawing his mind to it with its crystalline clarity, only to show him the Nightmare of blood sprayed and the somehow-still-graceful slump of dead meat and the chime of spent brass on tile. The moment of the memory of Failure came even as the Dream was given Focus, and the brand burning on his flesh had burned instead into flawed crystal and stone.

Still, the Dream and the Nightmare were all he had left, one as close to divinity as the last shreds of his mind could grasp, and the other something almost more valuable—a **reason**. He Failed so he was Punished. Simple.

So he wept openly, no shame in tears, only in the Failure, and hobbled on skinny legs around the Cradle where he had been born to suffering, searching for a way to reduce it all to nothing.


End file.
